One More Miracle
by neverintendedtoexist
Summary: John's thoughts and increasing depression Post-Reichenbach, fitting the situation that he was in love with Sherlock before he jumped. Prequel to my story 'Fall for You', but can be read alone. Rated M for violence and suicidal thoughts.
1. Alone

_**AN: **I listened to the song 'Heavy Hours' by Crooked Fingers (which was recommended by a friend) a lot while writing this fic, it makes me cry and I think it's very fitting for The Reichenbach Fall. _

* * *

He's gone. Gone.

There will be no miracle. No way he could ever come back.

I have to make myself believe it. _I have to. _I know in the totally logical part of my brain that he's…I can't bring myself to say it.

This isn't right, I have to admit it or I'll never get over it. Admitting it is the first step.

She made me do it before, my therapist, but it wasn't something I meant. It had all been a lie to make me feel a little better, hoping that if I heard it out loud-form my own mouth, I would be able to believe the words I said, to convince her that I was sane. To convince myself- it didn't work. I just wanted her to believe me for once, for someone to believe as I do. I didn't believe what I said at all. But I needed to do it. This time, I will believe it, I will say those words with conviction.

Why can't I do this? Okay, I can do it. I was a solider, for God's sake. Why am I so scared to do it? It's only words. I have to. I can't go on lying to myself.

My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.

_Do I believe it, really?_

But he isn't-_wasn't_, _John ,wasn't-_ just my best friend. I'm in love with him. Even if he is…gone-I'm just going to stick with 'gone'; it doesn't sound as permanent (so it sounds a lot better in my brain), but it's fitting- he is gone, totally and completely gone. Maybe I'll never get over him, maybe I'll always go on with this numbness, with this arrogant, lanky, high-cheekboned hole in my life.

But I can go on. I know I can. I lived before I met him, right? Being alone isn't _that _bad.

Is it?

Totally alone, for the rest of my life. I can do that, I have friends, there's Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly-but they're all Sherlock people. All my old friends are either overseas- still fighting, or he insulted then enough that they refuse to talk to me even if he is- I force the word out, it isn't healthy to just say 'gone' as if he'll come back-dead.

But is he, really? Is he by some miracle-and he was bloody good at miracles- still alive? No. I can't let myself think that. Think of this logically. He's dead. You felt his pulse. He didn't have one. He's dead, of course he is. But could he have-. For God's sake no, I have to block all these thoughts. The ones saying that he could have survived where no one else would have, he's Sherlock, he could do anything.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. I can't do this. I can't let myself think that he went off and just left me.

It's better, a thousand times better, than him being dead, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't just leave everything like this, he'd have told me. How could he have done it? Just gone? Left me here- as alone as I was the day we met? He's left forever now.

I owe him everything. I owe him my sanity; even though he's currently the source of the opposite, I owe him my defence; whenever anyone questions him. He gave me so much, the friendship: I had never had a friend like that before. Someone that made me laugh so much, someone that would always be there to talk to- whatever he pretended, I know that he always listened, someone that _relied on me. _I know it's ridiculous, but I liked that he seemed to need me, that he wouldn't sleep, eat without force, that even on cases, where he was at his best, and he shot down everything anyone said to him, he'd listen to what I had to say, and often, it would help him in some way. I liked being needed like that, having a purpose, I hadn't had that after I got injured, and it was something I craved. I owe him a lot of the new friends I'd made too, I hadn't seen anyone at all from before until I met up with Stamford, they were all on tours or in some big flash hospital. I had barely talked to anyone, and I just sat in the little flat all day, alone. Very much as I'm doing now; but that's out of choice, I guess, I refuse to talk to people though a lot of them have visited. I had no one then, absolutely no one, and he filled that, He fixed it, fixed me. Now he's gone, he's left me more broken and even more alone that I even thought possible.

It's been almost 2 weeks since it happened, and I've hardly slept or eaten at all.

The surgery called- probably to get me to come in, or just offer me compassionate leave- but I didn't answer. I should have gone in really, but it's not like I needed the money.

That first week when I'd gone down to pay Mrs Hudson, looked at me strangely, and said, "Oh, dear, you must have forgotten , what with…anyway, you and Sherlock paid up until the end of the year, you don't need to pay the rent" I was really confused, I even double checked my bank statement, after all Sherlock knew my pin from watching in a restaurant once, was likely to have my credit card number memorised, and could forge my signature, but no money had gone out. Very strange, he must have paid it all himself for some reason, and it gave me some inkling that he's planned this whole thing, and had given me the money as some sort of payment, some sort of gift to ease my pain. Fucking bastard, as if I cared about money if I knew that he might need to pay up something to make my life 'cushy' when he killed himself. How dare he even think that he would help me, that he would think that he could somehow make me feel better with money of he threw himself off a building. He must think that I'm disgusting if he expected me to be mollycoddled with something like this.

I just lay in bed. Most of the time, whenever I am able sleep I have nightmares. Not the old ones, about the war, these ones, if possible, are even more surreal.

Every time, I'm a second too late. Sometimes I get there, my arms are out, I could have caught him but just I'm too far away, at times even missing him by centimetres. Sometimes, I'll be there, on the roof with him, trying to coax him down but he never listens. His face is the same, statue like, a mask. He doesn't listen to me at all. And I watch him, again and again, fly towards the ground. It's as if it's being played on a constant loop in my mind, and I can't escape.

Others it's a reflection, always with a few details changed, of how he really die . I stand there, helpless, in the middle of the road watching him fall, fall. Plummeting towards the earth, his body going limp, his legs and arms flailing in the air, ever so graceful. Then it's over. I hear the sickening crunch of his skull hitting the pavement, see his body hit the ground. In the dream, the building doesn't obstruct my view, I get to see the whole thing. His whole body bouncing slightly as he hits the cold concrete slabs, the blood dark, dark red blood pooling around his head. I get to him, and sometimes he actually has a pulse- a very weak pulse, but still, a pulse- and I just have to get over him to keep it going. But they don't let me, I scream, I fight but they don't let me near him. The people milling around the body push me away, and I'm left knowing that only I could have saved him. Or, sometimes, there's no one there, and I'm left, doing chest compressions to no avail. I pump and pump away, breathing into his mouth, trying to shock his heart and lungs into working. But nothing ever happens, I try and try to force him back into life, but it never works. At some point in this dream, I'll call an ambulance, or for a doctor in the hospital, but because I can't move, and in the dream the street is totally deserted, no one ever comes. He just lies there, getting colder and colder, and I can't do it. I can't bring him back to life.

There are others that are a lot more illogical than these, those that blend with my old nightmares. he's with me in Afghanistan, he's been shot and I need to dig the bullet out with my bear fingers. I almost have it in my grasp but I lose it again and again, plunging it deeper and deeper into his body. My fingers are delving into the flesh, past severed arteries, sometimes tendons or muscles. This always ends with him dying, gasping my name, pleading for the pain to end, apologising for what's happened, in my arms. In others, he's about to walk into a mine and I am about to shout to stop him, but he walks over it and I am showered with his body parts. I'll stand there, covered in his blood tiny parts of his boy end up hitting me, his severed leg poring blood, the bone cut clean off. I'll drop it and run, still partially covered in guts and blood and if I'm lucky I'll wake up then, and not have to see the same thing go again, only more and more violent. That one always ends with me screaming, crying and curled in the foetal position. Actually all of the nightmares end in me waking up shaking, sweating and sobbing to different degrees, depending on whichever I've had .

The rest of the time, the situation goes exactly as it actually did, he has no pulse at all. His heart has stopped. And I know, that if I had just been a little faster, if I hadn't answered that fake call, I would have been able to save him. If only I had acted just a little differently, I know that there is no way anyone else could have done anything- he wouldn't listen for one thing, even less than the amount he listened to me, could have known that it wasn't real. I could have got there in time.

I should have known when he didn't go with me. It was Mrs Hudson, the only person in the world he's ever shown affection towards (though, at times, I think that his actions towards me could be interpreted as affection, but I'm not even going to go there), the only person that he loves. He knew straight away that she was fine ,I should have waited and asked why he wouldn't go, forced him to say, rather than just calling him a machine. I hate that the last time I ever talked to him in person we had argued. I had actually told him- to some degree- that I would protect him, and I had completely and utterly failed at that. I had failed as his friend too. He had everything planned so that I wouldn't be there to stop him, he knew that he was going to jump, I'm sure of it. I call myself his best friend yet I didn't even guess at that. But of course who could ever understand what goes on in that giant brain of his?

I have to get up. I need something to eat. I haven't had anything in…I'm not sure. I think it's been at least 15 hours but I don't feel hungry.

Though I do need something. So I haul myself out of bed and go to the kitchen. I glide past the table, I haven't used it all he left some experiment laid out there,-there are seven petri dishes with teeth in various states of decay-and I can't bring myself to move them. I barely even look them, even, they remind me too much of him, and it hurts.

The other things we would do together;those that are still possible, even the smallest things like drinking tea, carry pain now and I try to avoid them as best I can. I can't do these things, not alone, but I do like to think about them, remember the good times, through the pain, it does make me feel pretty good. That I can think of him, hold those images in my mind, and that's something I need to do, however much it costs.

I take out a Shepard's Pie Mrs Hudson made (she's been making all my meals lately, she cooks when she's upset), I guess it's her way of comforting me, and warm it in the microwave.

That microwave. I had scrubbed and scrubbed at it but eventually we had to but a new one. Pig's blood is extremely hard to get rid of, and I wasn't sure I had wanted to use it after that anyway. Sherlock didn't even seem that sorry about ruining it. So it surprised me greatly when a new one had turned up that door, ordered under the name of Sherlock Holmes a few weeks before he left.

He had actually cared enough about what I would need, he had _thought_ about me. He never thinks about anyone (unless it would change a part of his case)

This apartment. Everything reminds me of _him. _Of the fact that he'll never come back here. I should get out, move away (I would just be able to cover the rent alone if I took extra shifts), but I can't. I need to stay, to do everything I can to keep him ever-present in my mind. I don't want to lose anything.

I sit in my chair and eat the meal from my knee and watch some mindless TV programme. At one point, a character climbs to the roof of a building to hide and I have to turn it off. I couldn't take it, I don't think I'd paid much attention anyway, I had lost the care I used to have for these fictional people on the screen, and the news was still sensationalising Sherlock's suicide, so that was out too.

I couldn't eat anymore, not that I had had much anyway.

I should do something. Dr Thompson said that I should try writing my blog again, so I pick up my laptop. I log in and just sit there, the curser blinking at me, taunting me. Showing me that I have nothing, that I am nothing, without Sherlock.


	2. Unknown

I wake up 2 hours later, my neck cricked from the angle of the chair and my leg throbbing. I've been using my cane again since…since….I take a deep breath, even though this is only a thought, it feels necessary to do this I could feel the lump that appeared in throat whenever I thought about him begin to form, so I sallow too…since Sherlock died. I wake up with a start, in my dream Sherlock and I had been together- as in a couple- which seemed to be lovely at first, then there was the hound, the illusion from the case in Dartmoor, the thing he had described, it was real, and it was dragging him from my arms, tearing him apart. In the dream, I couldn't move, I was trapped, I had no way to save him from the terrible beast.

I drag myself up and check the laptop which had fallen from knee and on to the floor "Shit" -_Great _now I'm talking to myself out loud- the first sign of madness. There was a huge crack down the left hand side. I turned it on, and everything seemed to be in working order, which was a huge relief. Not that I used the laptop anymore, with the lack of anything to write, I would just open it, even the shows or movies I used to watch online, or the emails I revived from old friends didn't interest me, so they were just left. What would be the point in writing my blog anyway? It would be a load of depressing stuff about how I feel, and no one would want to read that. So I'm right back to the start. The way I was living before, how I felt, right now I'm back to nothing ever happening to me.

It was 3pm and I know exactly where I'm about to go. I had been trying to avoid it all day, but I knew that that place would draw me back. There's some force that pulls me back, day after day. Again, this isn't healthy, but I do it.

I shouldn't even be talking about him like this. Like a long lost lover. We were never like that, nothing ever happened between us. Though at the end, before… a few weeks ago…I realised something.

I had been sat in my chair, and he was laid out on the sofa his eyes closed, apparently plotting a new experiment .Despite this assurance from him, I suspected he had been watching the TV as I was; the few times I had looked over his eyelids were just fluttering shut. Doctor Who had finished and there was nothing else on, so I had turned to him to say something.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak the phone rang, Lestrade wanted us to go to a crime scene and he refused to just send Sherlock pictures. "Come on, John" he called, pulling on his coat and turning up his collar, which made me smirk a little.

I yawned and stretched, "Oh, John, don't worry you can sleep soon. I think I know what it is, I just need to check for a dandelion puffs"

I didn't even ask, I was too tired for one of his long explanations right now, so I shrugged on my jacket and followed him out of the door. He wouldn't usually care about my bodily needs but I didn't question this, he was different with me now.

It took us about ten minutes to get a cab- something extremely unusual to Sherlock and something that had shim pacing up and down the street like a complete madman, and by this time we were both soaking wet due to the heavy rain. When we got in the cab, Sherlock shook his head like a wet dog, droplets of rain flying from in every direction, hitting everything, including my eye.

"Sherlock!"

"What? He asks, looking up from his phone completely innocently.

"What was that for?" I ask, wiping my eyes

"My hair was dripping into my eyes. I need to see" he says, staring back at his screen.

"You got me all wet"

"You were soaked anyway, it didn't make a difference."

"But Sherlock, that doesn't mean-. Never mind" I could see that he was hardly listening, focusing on whatever he had looked up on his phone.

We got to the crime scene in a matter of minutes, Sherlock snapping directions at the driver as he continued staring at his phone.

Sherlock strode in, ignoring Anderson's protests and someone's insistence he wear a body suit as he bent over the body.

Getting out of the cab, Sherlock and I had had to walk all the way around a block of flats to get to the site, making us both wet again. The Yarders were crowded around the entrance of the building and I slipped in between them to a bedset.

"No dandelions" Sherlock muttered to himself, and began circling the body.

The woman on the floor was half wrapped in a sheet, most of her legs exposed. "One of the women had that tattoo in the army, means serenity" I say, pointing to a line in Farsi on her left calf. The tattoo looked pretty fresh, too.

"John! Fantastic. Brilliant! I didn't think that it could be related to the army, but of _course_"

He grabbed both my shoulders with thin, long fingers and it almost sent a shiver down my spine, and his eyes were alight, a deep blue- today. His lips curled into a smile, the cupid's bow shape more noticeable. The light from the lamppost outside filtering in through the dingy window hit his face at the perfect angle, emphasising his sculptured cheekbones. His voice sounded velvety, a deep timbre. He was beautiful.

_Wait…what? Did I just say Sherlock was beautiful? Why am I focusing on his appearance? _ I don't see him like that. I don't. No. Of course not. I'm _not_ gay. I _do not_ find him attractive.

He then turned and fired a rapid speech at Lestrade while some poor Yarder tried to write it down. Apparently, the tattoo gave away the murderer's description and current location something to do with a link in the army and a religious dispute.

He bent down again, indicating parts on the body. _His arse. In those tight, tailored trousers. So pert, I want to reach out and-._

No. John no… What? I don't want that. I don't. I would never see Sherlock in that light. I'm not gay. I won't think of him in that way.

_And his shirt is so tight, the buttons look like they're about to pop off. His bare torso would-_

. No. I am not going to think about that. I will not, it's exhaustion it's sending you crazy. You do not want that. At all.

But I was fully awake now, after that rain.

"John?" He called waking me up from my sudden trance, or more accurately, my complete confusion "Let's go home" he brushed past me on the way to the door, sending a strange tingle down my spine.

Now that I think about it, I had always noticed things about him before that you wouldn't naturally notice about someone that was just a friend, specifically is that someone was an asexual _man._ Say, when he comes out of the shower, how his hair will be flattened and as it dries it will get fluffier, in a way that made me want to reach out and touch it, or how tight his shirts always are, the buttons straining, the way his voice sounds and how much I seem to enjoy it, even if he isn't saying anything important, I mean that can't be normal if I didn't fancy him.

Wait. Wait. Wait, did I just admit to fancying Sherlock? God, what is happening?

Oh, and how, when he walks around the flat in just a sheet or towel, which is pretty often, he looks great. I had thought that before, but it's fine for a straight man to say that another man is attractive, but to actually _find _him attractive, think his semi-naked form is stunning, is something entirely different, and that's exactly what I had thought, I now realise.

I spent the whole taxi ride home in silence, thinking. _What was that? Why did I feel that when he _touched me?

_**I am not gay. **_

When we got back, Sherlock immediately got out of his violin and began playing. Something real this time, not playing awfully to wind me up. I was in his good books right now.

He stood in the window, bow raised. The notes were incredible it was something I had never heard before "Sherlock?" I asked tentatively, he hated being interrupted "Did you write that yourself? It's amazing"

"Yes."

Such a simple melody, but gorgeous, I sat back letting my head fill with the notes, washing away the absurd thoughts I had had at the crime scene. I wouldn't be able to sleep yet, I was too afraid that I'd dream of _him._

Then suddenly, three little words pop into my brain, those three little words that can, and have, changed so much "I love him" popped into my brain.

I can't. It can't be that. I am not gay. Not at all. No.

But when I think of him.- I have no idea, maybe it's true. _No, no I am not. I am not gay. I do not like guys. _ But with Sherlock, there's something that…intrigues me, to say the least. What if it's more than that? His genius, his ability to solve murders and thus saving lives, the caring side I had only seen a handful of times. The side of him that he showed to no one else.

The way in the mornings, if he's slept, he'd be cute. He hadn't yet put up a mask and he'd sometimes mumble to himself, say little things about me or Mrs Hudson that he thought I couldn't hear._ Oh God John_. _Sherlock is not 'cute'. What are you thinking? _

How he would sometimes say little things that made me feel warm inside, complimentary things that were lovely, that I would never have expected from him. I thought that this was just something platonic, but I had never thought of a friend this way before, at all. So maybe, just maybe it's something more, then again I am not gay, I have never found any man attractive before in my life, so how can that make sense?

When, after we had finished a case, in the car on the way home, he would collapse, catching up on all the sleep that he had denied himself. His long legs would curl up on the seat, and his head would droop until it was resting on my shoulder, at those times, he seems so vulnerable, so childlike, it was nice just to sit there. If I moved him, he would groan and his head would always find its way back to my shoulder somehow.

The thing is, he had become everything to me. Before, I was so alone. I had nothing, I was going crazy. He fixed me. Not only the psychosomatic limp, but the nightmares had decreased a lot too.

And a few times when I had woken up screaming, he had come into the room, asked what was wrong. The he brought me a glass of water and attempted to comfort me, which in his head was the incentive to tell me about some of the gorier cases he had worked on, this didn't exactly make me sleepy, so after the first few times, I had asked him to play me something because there were things he had played before that relaxed me. He had obliged, to my amazement, and he had spontaneously composed a lullaby. This was just something so very out of character for him that it made me wonder, why would he want to do that at all, he hadn't shown that he would care about that in any other way before, it was very strange. He was the best part of my life, the banter, his little habits that kept me entertained while there was nothing on TV, the chases.

He had filled a hole on my life, in my heart. Little did I know that he would lay roots there.

Okay. Fine. I'm not gay. I just love Sherlock.

For weeks after that night, I had contemplated this. Thought about him a lot. I thought about really mushy stuff, holding his hand, candlelit dinners, late nights cuddled up on the sofa watching movies.

Everything.

Whenever I saw a couple, I would feel warm inside. That rush that you get from love, the euphoria and longing you feel when looking into someone's eyes.

That feeling built up and built up inside me. For weeks, I would look at him when I knew he wouldn't know of it. I even gave myself a deadline for admitting it.

The 16th of June. The day he jumped.

I had taken a lot of time to pluck up the courage to say something, almost starting twice but then failing, getting too scared of what he said back. What would I do if he didn't love me back.

What would I do if he did?

I was about to say something, even though he was in a bad mood, before I got the call about Mrs Hudson. I would have preferred another time entirely, but I knew if I didn't say anything then I never would at all. The call that dragged me away, the call that cost me my whole world.

I start to cry. I had told myself not to think about this, attempted to but all the thoughts away in my mind, lock them away, kind of like Sherlock's mind place, but this would be a corridor that I would never enter, a door to thoughts which I would never open. Not to remember him. But I couldn't let anything go. I needed to remember everything. The tears fall down my cheeks and I didn't even bother to wipe them.

I looked at his violin, perched on the desk the bow hanging over it. I stood up and picked it up, tears still cascading down my face.

I felt the smooth wood, the hard defined grain of it. The delicate strings that could produce such evil, spite, love, longing, calm, anger. It would never play again. It would never be shown to the world, it would lay dormant in my memory. Everyone else would forget it, forget him eventually. But not me. I wouldn't, couldn't, ever forget Sherlock Holmes.

I slide down to the floor, sobs racking my body. What am I supposed to do now?

When my tears dried, I still didn't feel like getting up. So I sat with my back against the desk and started into space.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed but I suddenly felt the urge to get up, so I put on my coat and set off to the graveyard.


	3. Collapse

I always walk there. I find the cool, crisp air of the London streets to be soothing.

The gates are open, and I walk straight in.

Sometimes, I wander around, go to the war memorial. I had been invited to speak at the Remembrance Day parade a few months ago, so I knew this memorial well, had read the names of the heroes many times. Sherlock had come with me, I didn't think he would want to at all he had seemed…proud to be invited, to accompany me there. I was in my full dress uniform and everyone was looking to me, Sherlock seemed to be impressed when I came downstairs fully dressed in it, something that flickered in his eyes for a moment (which my love-addled/ possibly lust filled brain interpreted it as desire, something which I quickly shook off. How many ways is he going to drive me crazy?) , until he asked to experiment on my boots for some reason or another. But when I was up at the memorial, he had watched, no hint of the usual boredom in his eyes, and he didn't even insult anyone while we were talking to people after, which I found strange.

Today, I went straight to the grave. To Sherlock's grave. I have to stop avoiding saying that, or anything else to do with…to do with his death.

I stood there, not saying anything. Just looking at the cool, dark marble with the heading 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' in gold, no date, no 'fell asleep' or some quote he'd hate just as much. Not even 'brother, son' as you would expect.

Sherlock's headstone should have borne more, perhaps even 'loving father and husband'. He could have got to that, one day, I think. He could have felt love at least not in the normal way, I'm sure he never did before. But having a friend, having me, had changed that about him.

I wonder, while stood with my arms placed on the cane in front of me and still staring resolutely at the slab of marble, if I had got to tell him how I really felt, that I loved him, if he would have still done it. We had so much time; I had had so many opportunities and just wimped out, if only I had said something, maybe he wouldn't have thrown himself off that building at all.

Standing here, I felt closer to him. Not just literally, because he was obviously in the soil under my feet, but I could feel his presence almost. It was almost as strong as I could feel in the flat, even though he'd been here once- and very briefly.

I stay there, in silence for just under an hour before I feel the cold creeping into my bones. I walk away, muttering a goodbye. As if he would hear it. I think I really am becoming delusional.

The cycle continues. Day after day I get up from a night of tossing and turning in bed while sleep continues to evade me, eat a very small portion then go to the graveyard, come home and lay around, attempting to sleep and failing.

I haven't slept the full 8 hours the body needs for ages. To be truthful, if I saw a patient with the same symptoms I have (I've lost just over a stone in weight, and my face seems to have become very pale, there are dark circles under my eyes too) I would prescribe them antidepressants. I'm not going to take those, they make you dopey, feel things unnaturally, forget.

Not that I'd go to the surgery to get a prescription anyway.

I haven't been there at all in the last month and I'm probably fired but I haven't been answering the phone so I have no way of telling. Harry ended up coming round, really worried but I made excuses, told her I had work to get her out before she would really see how far I've sunk into the depression. I know she saw the difference in my appearance though-and that she told Mum and Dad.

They've been calling too but I never feel like answering. I don't care the way I should, I don't care at all anymore. About anything I used to. I just try to get through the days.

Maybe I should have talked to her when she came; we were so close when we were younger, before her drinking started.

I can't. I can't talk to anyone about this, about how I'm feeling right now.

I called Mycroft the other day. He was very polite, as usual, but his answers were short and I could see he was busy, but I kept him talking. I ask about Sherlock's childhood, what he did before he met.

I don't get much out of him, his answers are one worded and I give in and hang up without saying bye.

Then I go back to my bed, stare at the ceiling, hoping sleep will come, but it never does.

The idea of actually talking to someone, not my therapist I didn't want to see here, is almost constantly in my head throughout the next week. I would have told a patient to, so why can't I do it myself?

I go walking, maybe I can clear my mind. I don't think about where I'm going (I've already been to the graveyard today) I just walk, ignoring the pain in my leg as I practically drag it along.

Suddenly, I find myself outside Angelo's- where we ate that first night. I bite my lip and lean more heavily on my cane, to keep from falling to the floor and sobbing.

But then I can't help and I slide to the floor the restaurant's closed and most people are in work, so the street is almost deserted.

Then I see her, across the street. Harry. _Shit._ I've been avoiding her, she's been wanting to talk or go out together, to celebrate. She isn't drinking anymore. And I'm proud of her, I do care, care that she's better, really I do. It's just…I don't feel like celebrating anything right now. Or ever again.

"John….?John?" she yelled waiting for the cars to pass so she could cross the road. If I got up maybe I could avoid her, pretend that I hadn't heard. I just couldn't. I sit on the floor, my head buried in my arms. I have no idea what's keeping me here. I feel so stuck.

Get up, get up John. It's not hard, grab the wall and-. No. My knees give way again and I know that I won't be able to get up.

When we were here that first night, what if Sherlock hadn't been 'married to his work' or if I had felt like I do now?

Maybe he wouldn't have thrown himself off the roof.

Harry was on my side of the street now and running towards me.

Oh God. Oh God. What is she going to do? What do I say?

She'll know. She'll know that I don't – didn't- think of Sherlock as only my best friend. She'll do that thing from when we were kids. Look at me, and know what's wrong, almost like Sherlock the way she just knows, but she can only figure it out with me, and only if there is something wrong or if I'm lying.

Shit.

How do I tell her? It's Harry, I can tell her anything, we were so close before she began drinking. We aren't anymore though. We hardly speak. No. I don't know, she'll laugh- say she knew all along, comfort me. Maybe, maybe it'll be a relief.

"John" I felt her arms wrap around me "What are you doing here? Come on, come on. Get up" She pulled at me, and seeing that this failed, just wrapped her arms around me tighter, shielding me from the rest of the street.

I struggled against her embrace, trying to get up "Harry, I'm fine. I'll just-" I stood, still in her hug so it was more like she was the one holding me up. I stepped away, still holding onto her so I didn't collapse again but putting the distance between us, making sure that I didn't look directly at her so she couldn't do whatever it was that made me spill my guts.

"No you are not fine, John"

"I am, it was just-" my breath catches in my throat- the lights had come on in the restaurant and I could see the table, our table, with its candle ready to be lit. Then I feel the tears come to the surface, and my whole body begins to tremble. _For fuck's sake what is wrong with me._ Why do I keep breaking down like this?

"John? John?" she asked anxiously, patting my shoulder soothingly "Tell me. Why were you here, on the floor? Why are you crying? You never cry."

I took a deep breath and tried to speak "I-it's" I couldn't say his name, not aloud, not again. It hurt too much.

"It's Sherlock, isn't it?" she turns me and begins walking, her arm still on my shoulder "Get in" she ordered, I didn't even question it, she was obviously still very sober. "The fucking bastard"

I choked "What? Who? You can't mean-" I push the sobs down, trying to blank it from my mind so I could stop crying.

"I bloody well do. So fucking selfish" she revs the engine "Look what he's done to you. You're staying at mine tonight"

I don't protest against that one, he had been selfish, unbelievably so. Couldn't stand people thinking he wasn't a genius, so he killed himself. That thought tore at me, he didn't even care enough to tell me, he was just so big-headed, he didn't want people to think less of him.

But she isn't allowed to insult him, even though he deserves it-only I'm allowed to do that, it feels wrong coming from her mouth, and I get defensive.

I pulled my legs up onto the seat, using my hands to get my left leg to follow suit, and hugged my knees.

Then, he was usually so open with me. He would have told me, I could have convinced him, changed his mind. I still don't fully believe he would have done it over that. Maybe he could have. I felt the tiny sliver of hope I still held rise inside me, he could have done something, a miracle. He might still be here.

No. No John, you are not allowed to think that. He didn't have a pulse, you felt that. He's dead and gone, you will never see him again.

A sob rose in my throat and racked my whole body. I had control of this again a minute ago. _What has happened to me?_

"No Harry, I can-" she turned to me, and I was still crying. _Ugh. I'm crying so much. This isn't right. I never cried before. _

"You cannot be alone, not in that state. "

I had been alone like this before, in worse states, but she hadn't seen me. And when I came back from the war and I was completely alone, just as I was now, she hadn't cared when I had seen her she had always been so pissed that she wouldn't have remembered me being there in the morning. I was reluctant to go with her because I was worried that my depression would make her remember her own, send her back to the drink again.

"I'll be fine. Just take me home, please."

"No. There is no way that you are going back there tonight. And if you are worrying about me, don't you even dare. I've been a useless sister to you for years, so let me help."

"But-"

"Shut up, squirt"- a name she'd always called me as a kid "Nothing you say will convince me"

She had moved again, so she was a lot closer. I just stare into the dark as she drives, trying to regain control.

"Up" she ordered as we reached a high- rise block of flats "19th floor" she guides me towards the lift.

I just follow, unable to muster enough energy to disobey her. We reach her flat, she unlocks the door and pushes me inside.

"What the fuck, John? You collapsed in the middle of the street. That can't be normal. Are you still seeing that therapist?"

I nod. If I don't speak it's less likely that she'll know I'm lying to her

"Well, she isn't doing any good. And this is only about him?"

I nodded again and sat on her sofa "What a fucking prick. I hate him, he's ridiculous. I know he was your friend, John but I knew there was something wrong about him"

I felt the anger welling up inside me "He is not a fake" I almost bellow at her.

"I didn't doubt that, calm down, even though it was in the paper, I would always believe _you_ and your judgement. It's just that he never felt anything, from what you said, and that one time we met. He was very weird John"

"He isn't-wasn't, sorry. He was just very different to you or me, not weird, just different"

"You're very defensive of him" she looks at me, staring me down. When I lied to avoid getting told off as a kid, Harry always knew, even if Mum didn't.

Which is probably why I've been avoiding her "Oh my god. Oh god. John, erm-" she pauses, then frowned "John, you didn't fancy him, did you?"

I stiffen. How had she known that so fast? "I love him, Harry" then I realised that there was no point in lying to her. She walks over to me, pulling me into a hug, letting me sob on her shoulder. "I really do. I-I" I couldn't get the words out, couldn't catch my breath, I swallow "He's perfect. At least for me. He could just walk into a room-" the tears were still running down my face, and Harry patted my back again.

"See things, that no one else did. He saved lives that way, he was a hero" I struggled to go on and took another deep breath "and he was beautiful, I actually found him attractive. A man. Attractive" I said, attempting humour and miserably failing. She stares at me pityingly, I hate that look on her face

"Before, I had no one to turn to" she stopped patting for a moment, obviously guilty "and he was there, he fixed me"

Another, larger round of sobs racked my body until I was no longer able to speak. "Stay there" she whispered and went to make me a cup of Horlicks. When that was done, she came back and pulls me towards her again. She makes me drink everything, then listens as I babble on and on about Sherlock's brilliance, all of our cases, all the little things he did that I love until I had not more tears left and fell asleep suddenly, on her shoulder.

The next morning, I awoke and she was standing over me, watching "What?" I asked groggily

"You were screaming. "

"Oh yeah, the nightmares. From the war."

"You were screaming his name" I slump down again, burying my face in my hands.

"Oh, John, I wish I could help" she groans and rubs my shoulder, then changes tactic, hoping to sheer me up." Dad's gonna hate this. Two gay kids."

"I am not gay"

"You told me you loved Sherlock, that you were attracted to him."

"I still do" I swallowed against the lump in throat that rose at his name "but I'm not gay"

"Whatever. But John, you can talk to me. Don't keep it bottled up" I did feel different now, not better, just different knowing that someone knew how I truly felt. Whatever it was that this did for me, however, I know it working again. I've told her everything already so talking more will just intensify the pain as she knows everything but she's not someone I'd be able to share memories with.

"Come here" she hugged me again, squeezing hard "Now, I have to work. You can stay here, or go home, though I don't think that would be good"

"I'll go home. I feel more comfortable there" I didn't mention that was because Sherlock's presence was so heavy there, the bullet holes in the wall, the burn on the carpet where he's dropped acid, the mess, the smell of his shower gel, of him.


	4. Angry

This morning, I climb out of Sherlock's bed. I hardly slept, but still upon getting up I felt slightly surprised that I was there. In the early hours of the morning, I had become desperate, the flat that usually smelled so much of Sherlock, was so reminiscent of him in every stain, every piece of mess, every obscure note, had seemed to be empty. Emptier than ever before, it seemed that these things that were usually so full of him, would remind me of so many things, were hardly there anymore, I'd looked at them all for so long, that they seemed normal, less _him_ since he hadn't been there for so long, and I needed something. Needed my 'Sherlock hit'.

So I climbed of the sofa, from where I'd been staring at his skull (god that sounded so morbid, but you know what I mean, his ornamental skull). I walked around the flat, at the mouldy, stinking experiment in the kitchen that I still refused to move and it still wasn't enough. So I ended up his bedroom, which was actually somewhat organised. Well, his cabinet and wardrobe seemed quite neat, even though his bed had never been made. And oh god his clothes. The neatly pressed blazers the long black trousers whose material seemed to just flow. Then the shirts that were always so tight, hanging there they seemed so strange, the sleeves dangling like that, the body section loose over the hanger, not on him, the buttons stretched to the point of bursting as they should have been.

I stroked my hand over all of these in turn, then shut the door. It still didn't seem like enough, even though I felt like an intruder somehow in here, as if the room shouldn't have been disturbed, I still wanted to stay. So I went to the bed and sat down. As the mattress dented, the sheets let of a cloud of his scent and, realising that I seemed like some creepy stalker, I lay down and buried my head in his pillows. They smelt so of him, of the aloe vera shampoo and shower gel he uses (god knows why he always made me buy matching ones), of the musky aftershave he wore- a gift form Mrs Hudson- and something completely different that was just so blatantly _him_. The slight smell of burning that always seemed to be on his skin, though it seemed normal with the amount of experiments he did, the smell of fresh London air (so faintly smoggy, with a hint of cigarette smoke and coffee), and something that I couldn't quite identify, almost like honey but sweeter, that I had never smelly apart form when we ended up getting too close, or he grabbed me in some fit of brilliance.

So I was very glad of getting up right then and having just showered when I heard Mrs Hudson trudging upstairs.

"John, dear?" she calls, knocking on the door.

"Come in" I call back, I never lock that door, not bothered for safety. I leave it open, just in case. If it was locked, people, okay a certain person that I'm sure will never come back through that door again, could walk in whenever he wanted. He wouldn't have a key, I had that. It had been given to me with a few possessions- his magnifier and a somewhat smashed phone.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson?" I ask as she walks in and stands at front of me, fiddling with her dress, nervous. She's been baking judging by the spots of flour and been watching TV for around four hours, looking at the creases in her dress.

"Er, John. Some men came today. While you were out. Asked after you"

"Who?" I asked, suddenly worried, I could hear a glimmer of hope in my voice, every time I thought of strangers coming round, I hoped it was some of the homeless network, telling me that Sherlock's alive, that he's going somewhere, and there here to take me to him. I know, ridiculous, right?

"They said they were from your work" I sigh, sitting back. I hate thinking like this, I wish, in some strange way, that I could stop hoping like this. Stop my heart quickening when I see dark curled head in the street, when I see the hem of a dark coat, when I see a tall man with pallid skin or anyone with sharp, high cheekbones (though I've never seen any quite as well shaped as Sherlock's)

"What did they want?"

"They said, seen as you haven't been answering their calls, and you've taken 5 weeks more leave than the allotted 6 after a family death- which they were 'generous' to offer you seen as you and Sherlock weren't related, apparently- which I think is a bit mean, don't you?"

"Mrs Hudson, could you just tell me?"

"Erm, I'm very sorry dearie, but they said you've been fired"

"Oh" I said, I was surprisingly unbothered by this development. Helping people ,like I did before, appealed to me-but what was the point? They were all going to die at some point anyway. And I know that it wouldn't bring some relief to the guilt I felt, as I had once before. That even seeing a sick child recover would even bring me and ounce of happiness, compared to the mountain it did before. Nothing could make me happy anymore.

"So you're okay?" she asked, calmer. She walks over and takes my hand, squeezing it.

"Yeah fine" I lie. Well I was fine, or rather, impassive about the lost job, just not about anything else.

"Are you sure John? You haven't been out in weeks, except to visit the grave"

"Don't worry, Mrs H. Now, how are you?"

"Still very sad, dear, I don't quite know what to do without him. I used to have such a busy time keeping him tidy and fed. You know, at some points the only way to get him to eat would be to make him caramel shortcake?"

"Yeah, I know. I know exactly how you feel"

"Oh John." She rubs my shoulder "You can always come and sit with me, you know."

"Yeah, thanks. Anyway, I was going to out soon anyway"

"Oh, good. I'll go to mine now then, let you get ready" she gives me one last sweet smile, then goes back downstairs.

She was right, I should go out. I suddenly felt the need to get out of this apartment, to be in the air. To see someone, anyone. I was sick of always being here I need some human company. And I didn't want to put the burden of myself on Mrs Hudson.

But where do I go?

No one will be at the pub at this time, and I don't know who I would meet there anyway. All my friends were either still in Afghanistan or were I didn't know where they were right now.

Of course, there were friends that I had made while I was with Sherlock, but I don't know if I could talk to them. Though it could even be helpful.

Then I know exactly where to go. Bart's. Of course. Molly. She would help me. And I might find something to actually do. Molly could help me, she liked him, fancied him.

Through the back entrance though.

I couldn't even go down that street, it was too painful -not that I'd tried.

I get down the stairs (which are a complete pain with my leg), and attempt to get a cab. Sherlock always seemed to have the ability to call one out of thin air, we hardly ever had to wait more than 5 minutes, or they would turn up on the road just as we came to it.

I tell the driver where to go, but didn't strike up a conversation with his as I would have done before. If I took a cab alone, before I met Sherlock, I would talk to the driver and try to be polite. I couldn't find the energy or see the point in that now.

The driver comes towards the adjoining road to Bart's and I saw that he was about to take me around to the front entrance "No, no. I need to be around the back." I say hastily.

The cabbie stopped at the light "I thought you wanted to be in the section closest to the morgue, which would be this way. And I'll have to drive write around the loop to get back to the main road. "

"I do. Just…go around the other way, please"

The cabbie rolled his eyes and turned around, grumbling about 'picky Londoners'

I get out, and give the cabbie a rather large tip, hoping to account for making him drive around the long way, inconveniencing him, even though it was his job.

I walk through the vast, chemical-smelling corridors to the morgue. I knock at the door "Molly?" and walk in.

"Oh. John. Hi. I haven't seen you in ages" she bustles around, staring at her clipboard, hardly looking up at me.

Molly walks towards me, clipboard in hand. "Hi"

Molly looks flustered for a second then askes "Why are you here? Do you need something?"

"Erm, I don't know. How are you?"

"Fine. Are you sure you don't have anything else to do?" It's strange that she hasn't asked me how I am, she usually would- it was only polite, and she had given me an extremely worried glance as I walked in with the cane.

And she seems to be trying to get rid of me.

She looks around the morgue again, "I'm a little busy that's all" An obvious lie, she's done- there's one body here and judging by the ink stains on the tips of her fingers she's almost done with her report on him.

"Oh. Alright." I turn to walk back out the door, disappointed.

She follows, and seems a little more relaxed. "No, John I'm sorry. I just have a lot on my mind." She glances over me again "Are you okay?"

"So you have something for me to do? Or we could just talk" I avoid her question. She stiffens a little when I suggest the talking, she's hiding something from me. _Maybe it's to do with Sherlock. _

"Erm, well you could go up to the lab…do some paperwork for me . No one uses it now. It's boring, but simple and it needs to be handwritten. You won't want to do it."

"No it's fine, I'll do it" I say, glad that she hasn't completely rejected me. "Er- Molly" I seem to have lost the ability to hold a proper conversation in the 2 months I've been alone. "Molly?" I start again.

"Yeah?" she asked, chewing on her pen lid.

"You don't think, that he, could have somehow- No, it doesn't matter. It's crazy"

She reached for my hand "I know you're grieving John, and that you're trying to find anyway to make this less painful." She drops my hand and looks away, nibbling on her lower lip and twiddling her fingers. "But no one could have survived that, and I've seen the body myself. He's gone." She steps away and begins leading me to the lab "Dead." Her voice quakes a little, I suspect she's upset. I shouldn't have brought it up, but I needed to talk to someone else who knew him well.

Mrs Hudson always brushes me off when I try and say something, says it hurts too much. I know that, but it makes me feel better, in a small way, to talk about him.

She's right. He's never going to come back to me. He swept into my life, made me feel the happiest and most fulfilled that I have ever felt in my life then left.

We get to the lab and it's his lab. The one he was in when we first met. I pinch my nose, supressing the memory. "Here" Molly goes into a draw and hands me a file "Just copy these out onto-" she hands me a pile of forms "these. It might be good to keep your mind off him for a while" she squeezes my arm and leaves.

His microscope is there, in the middle of the long bench. Incredible. Well why would he have tidied it up? Not like he cared about anyone but himself.

Just expected people to look after him, praise him. Why did I ever let myself think that he cared about me at all? The anger that's been building up inside me for weeks comes up now.

I pick up the microscope and throw it to the floor and the smash and tinkling of the glass in the floor is extremely satisfying.

He lied the whole time. _Smack_. The clamp stand that had been holding the beaker of acid (I'm not stupid enough to spill that) hits the floor.

He was only pretending to care, acting, he just thought I'd help him in some way. Was pleased he had some little 'pet' to keep him company and stroke his ego. Multiple _cracks_ sound and the glittering of glass smashing sound through the lab as I throw a test tube rack to the floor.

_Prick. _I sweep a shelf full of beakers on to the floor.

_Bastard_. I limp forward and throw a pile of books at the wall.

_Fucking Sherlock fucking Holmes. I can't believe you would do this. _I push the rest of what's left on the bench onto the floor. Some of the beakers had chemicals in, but thankfully they don't contaminate or burn through the floor. I wasn't watching at that point, almost blind in rage, all covering my earlier concern of been burned by harmful chemicals.

"John? Are you-What happened in here?" Molly gasps, coming back through the door, probably having heard something smash.

"I tripped, knocked a few things over" I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed at what I'd done. "I have to be going now" I push past her, and walk out, not looking where I was going.

I should have stayed there and helped her, but I still felt worked up and I didn't care right now about the mess I'd made or leaving Molly to do everything.


	5. The Street

I walk down the long winding corridors of the hospital, barely noticing the pain in my leg.

What did I just do?

Oh God. I barely even recollect what I've just done. How much did I smash? I was in a blind rage and now I almost can't remember what happened while I was in it. How did this even happen? I remember the bloody microscope, how he must have just left it there, leaving someone else to take care of it, remember it hitting the floor. Oh fuck, they're pretty expensive, I hope they don't make me pay for it. But with this thought, the anger rises inside me again and I realise that I don't care about the expense, it just felt so good to smash everything in there, so freeing, so reckless. I had finally gotten rid of some of some of the anger that I had felt ever since a few hours after I'd gotten over the initial shock of him jumping. Of course, there was still a lot of anger left inside of me at him, but it was proportionally less than before.

Maybe I should go back and help.

No, I can't I can still feel the anger in the pit of my stomach. _If he wasn't dead I'd kill him_ flashes through my mind. That doesn't make sense, but I feel it.

I swear, if I ever saw his smug, 'I'm so much smarter than you', face again I would hit him. Make him feel the pain he's put me through. I know for certain that even if he doesn't feel the emotional pain, something which I'm in constant conflict over, he will be able to feel that physical pain, and making him go through that will be something I enjoy. Not sadistically, but in a revenge kind of way.

Suddenly, I'm outside. I don't even remember coming to the door, feeling the breeze from outside as I should have coming through here, but the cold envelops me now. The icy fingers creep up my spine as I see where I've come to.

I didn't go back to the way I came into Bart's, no, I had to come this way. The thing is, my body carried me here when I wasn't even thinking about it. It must have been some subconscious decision, based on the amount of time my mind spends replaying the scene that took place the last time I was here, so rather than waiting months and coming here on some morbid 'let's try to relive everything and sink further into depression' field trip I had, somewhere deep inside, decided to come here now.

I'm already out there and I can't turn back now. Even if I wanted to, me feet feel stuck to the ground. On the pavement, the scene of so many of my nightmares.

I feel myself rushing forward, to the exact spot where he fell.

For some reason, I expect there to be a mark there, a dent from the impact or, even more illogically, all the blood to still be there, the stone slabs to still be stained that deep red, the pavement to bear some make of his hitting it, but of course it doesn't. Just another piece of fiction that my deluded mind came up with.

I bend down and touch imagining that he's there still. In my mind's eye I see him again. But this time, I move the crowd, I feel the pulse in his neck, again nothing. Then, with no one there, I can do CPR. And it works.

No one's there to block me, to push me away and I'm able to get through. To save him.

I feel my knees give out, and I'm crashing to the floor. This cannot be happening again. I'm on my knees, and I'm looking up. Into the sky, through the brightness and I can just see the rooftop.

I can't imagine what must have been going through his head. _His plan_._ His plan to avoid death and somehow get off the roof without injury _sparks up the little section in the back of my mind that sits there, rocking back and forth with its little tinfoil hat, in its delirium, thinking that Sherlock is still alive.No, no, no. I've stopped thinking like that I cannot let those thoughts come to forefront of my mind, I will keep them locked away. He is dead. Right here,, I saw fall 100ft, I felt his pulse…or lack of one.

It must have been that he couldn't stand people believing that he was a fake. I refuse to believe what he said, he was wither forced or there was some other ulterior motive to it. As I sit there, on the hard, cold slabs, the cold seeping up into my bones, my mind begins to replay sections of the phone call from that day, those bits that I don't understand.

"I'm a fake" He isn't, no way. I believe in him, in everything he did and no one can change that.

I get up, and hobble towards the road. There's one thing I don't understand, other than his whole 'confession' – or rather why he would have lied about all that.

Why couldn't I move?

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."

He wouldn't let me go into the hospital "Just do as I ask. Please" I turned around at that. Sherlock only ever said please if he really, really wanted something. Or needed it "Stop there"

He kept telling me exactly where I should have stood, not letting move anywhere further forward than the middle of the road. "

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are"

Why did he want me stay there? Why couldn't I have moved?

The first thing I thought that he only trusted me with his care. That he thought, out if all of the doctors in the world, I could have fixed him.

But again, this doesn't make complete sense, if it was that he would have wanted me closer when he jumped form the building, maybe even attempting to catch him, but he wouldn't let me get any closer to him. And I have no idea why.

It's just another thing to add to the list of if's and but's I have.

I look up, just as I had on that fateful day almost 3 months ago. And I see it again.

His body against the clear sky, silhouette like. His feet, seemingly so close to the edge. He would have been stood a step up, higher than the roof itself. I can imagine his long feet, balanced on the stone ledge, maybe even hanging over, so that they could just easily catch, how one small movement could have thrown him over the edge, how it could have happened before he wanted it to.

His hand up to his ear, holding the phone, the shaking in his voice, in my mind I see a single tear rolling down his face. Then I hear it again, those words that tear through me every time I hear them, so simple, ones that I heard so many times, form so many different people. Yet I held onto them,, thought of these two words so often replayed them so exactly in my head that I'm sure of changed the tone of them, those little words that have become so meaningful for me

"Goodbye John"

And then he reaches out behind him, dropping something-the phone- and he jumps.

Down, down, down. I couldn't see it all at the time but I know it, from my nightmares, his arms and legs flailing, the wind blowing out his coat, almost like a cape. As if he could fly.

But there is nothing there to save him now.

I rush forward, around the building obscuring my view of him as he falls.

Then the biker gets in my way, knocking me to the ground I feel a sharp pain in my arm as I hit the floor. I try to get up, struggling but I push against the tarmac and get up again.

I run as fast as I can to him, infuriatingly slowly. There is already a crowd of people around him, in my way. There he is, his head covered in blood, totally unconscious. That amount of blood, even for a head wound, is something serious. He needs a stretcher.

I push through the people obscuring my path grab his hand, feel for a pulse.

And there is none. The aching emptiness of his wrist, still warm. I make sure that I have the right place again and I do. There's nothing.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Empty, an unknown. I reach forward, ready to go chest compressions but I'm pulled away from him. These complete idiots I try to push through again and again but, probably from being knocked over I feel woozy and light headed and I can hardly stand up, let alone push through a crowd of people that were evidently stronger than me.

Good. They have a stretcher. But I don't understand. Why is no one performing CPR?

_Damn it, do you not understand_. I try to get through again, to the stretcher he's now on top of, but it's impossible. He's gone, I couldn't even see anything for the wall of people between us.

It must be too late now, he's gone forever.

They don't let me in the hospital either, they won't tell me where he went at A&E in reception, I'm not family. Suddenly, Mycroft is there, he seems to be his usual business like self but I see it. He's shaking, in pain, in shock. Mycroft. In shock. Ihe man who runs the government and knows absolutely everything, he never expected this, never expected Sherlock to lie, to falsely admit to the claims, to kill himself.

He gets through to them, and they sit us down in the hospital. Said that he was dead as soon as he hit the ground, that even CPR couldn't have saved him. Of course, I knew that he was already dead form the lack of the pulse, but to hear that here had never been any hope, to hear someone else confirm this, was much worse.

I don't remember anything else from that day. I've been told that I sat there, in the corridor of the morgue wanting to see the body, for hours. But they refused. I wanted proof, didn't want to believe it. Even though I knew, even though I wanted so much to convince myself otherwise that he was already gone. Dead.

I'd been taken out by a security guard, who apparently I attempted to run away from multiple times. Then I sat there, on the floor at his feet and curled up, completely unresponsive. They called a doctor, the psychiatric team, but I didn't respond.

I ended up being drugged and taken to a bed upstairs.

As soon as I awoke, I discharged myself and threw out all the medication, mostly for sleeping, some for the expected depression, that they had given me.

The first week was terrible, I was hardly able to function the nightmares that haunt me now had begun, they would trap me, and they would always be the same scene then, the real thing, my complete failure.

I'd spend those nights, the time that I spent awake, pretty much the same as I did asleep, reliving the moment that he fell thinking of the many, many things that I could have done differently that may have stopped him.

I hardly remember it. Though, again from other people's memories, I know that Ella was called for an emergency appointment, that my parents came to check on me, that Harry came. That I barely acknowledged any of them, forcing them away. They didn't give up, but they got on with their lives, something I can't do.

I think it was during that first week after Sherlock's-Sherlock's death, it still hurts to say that, that my leg started hurting again. Getting gradually worse until it was back to the pain I was in when I first came home.

I didn't eat either. Nothing at all, not even the few mouthfuls I eat now, just enough to stop any stomach pains form hunger. I've lost wait, my face is sunken, my eyes are blank, darker than before. My skin looks almost grey.

I'm still there. In the middle of the street, I don't know how long I've been stood here, but it's certainly darker than before. I'm shivering, I realise.

I should go back home. Though I can hardly call it that now. It's just a flat, a place to sleep and eat. Empty. With Sherlock gone, it's my house, but not my home.


	6. Final

It's been six months since he did it.

I've spent six whole months without him, and to be honest my life had just gone downhill. It's ridiculous how much I must have depended on him, how bigger hole he's left in my life now that he's gone.

For six whole months I've moped around, alone. I've barely done anything. I wish that there could have been some way that I could have felt better so that I cared enough or felt motivated enough to do _something. _Anything at all_. _But for some reason, I couldn't. I feel disgusted with myself, I don't even want to help people, and that's all I had ever wanted to do with my life from being a little kid.

I have no job, no friends around, I've become pretty much totally isolated in that flat; I don't eat or sleep. And, the worst thing, I didn't really care about any of this. The only thing, still, that I care about is him. Sherlock- god, it really shouldn't still hurt like this to say his name. I only care that he is gone, that I will never see him again, I can no longer feel his presence anymore, not in the flat, not at the graveyard, not at Angelo's, not in the morgue or any of the other places I'd tried (hell, I even went to Mycroft's- i.e. the house he and Sherlock had grown up in in an attempt to feel that he was_ there_). I was just so desperate, and I still am, to feel Sherlock's presence somewhere, to get the feeling that I was communicating with him; that I was just that tiniest bit closer to him.

I wish there was something I could do , that there was some way for me to 'cheer up', but that's not going to happen. It's been six whole months, and since then I haven't felt one tiny ounce of happiness. No matter what I did, even all of the things that used to bring me so much comfort and joy didn't work they just seemed to be so pointless and empty now.

I sit up in bed, where I'd been laying staring at the ceiling, and pull open the bedside draw, nesting there is m yLK Browning L9A1. The same gun that I shot the cabbie with- to save him. That seems almost like a fruitless effort now, seen as he killed himself, but of course if that had been the case I would have missed out on so much. To have done that I would have had to have been a completely different person, and I knew that there was no way that I could have let him be killed by that man, or in fact take the pill that would have killed him just to prove that he was smarter than some old guy with a brain aneurism.

But that was him. Sherlock would do anything to prove his genius.

Sherlock would do so much to show that he's smarter than everyone else- because he was. And unlike another child in his place when he was younger, this genius wasn't nurtured and praised-but ignored, so that he was left to explore it all by himself, leading to disastrous consequences. He was left in a school far below his abilities, so he began to look for these things himself, look for the excitement, something that would stop the boredom. That, and the need for appreciation caused but his neglectful parents-which led to the constant bullying- was the real cause of his death.

The gone was resting on top of a few notes I'd made, silly things really, the time Ella had told me to 'get it out', to talk to him, the time I had actually gone and said all these things was very different from what I'd actually wanted to say.

_Sherlock, _

_You were such a brave, addictive man. You never feared going to danger if you though it would bring some evidence, that it would help you catch a villain. And that made you a true hero, despite the things you told me before, you were, and always will be, a real hero. _

_I called you a machine, and I know that isn't true. You were utterly and completely human, but the truth is, Sherlock, you were the most human…human being. To tell you the truth, you were the best man I have ever met. _

_There is no way on earth that anyone could make me doubt you, get me to believe that you told me a lie. No matter what anyone says, I will always believe in you. _

_Before we met, I was so utterly alone. I had no one, I had been abandoned and left to rot, really. I wasn't…well doing so good on my own, as a civilian, and then you appeared. You made me better, fixed me. I owe you for that, I owe you everything. _

Then, of course, my now completely disappeared-seen as it's been so long and I've finally got my poor, deluded mind that he is actually dead, hopes that he was alive, somewhere, that he had found some way to survive.

_Please, Sherlock, please, there's another thing. One more miracle, one more, please, Sherlock. Just one thing. Don't be dead. Because, there's something you don't know, something that I would have expected you to deduce, because…Sherlock Holmes, if you can believe this. I love you. There. You know it now, now could you just help me, just…just don't be dead. _

I wonder how he would have responded to any of that. If in some alternate universe, he had been watching me.

I pick up the sleek pistol, stroke the barrel, flick off the safety, then put it back on. I keep the gun in my lap, thinking about it, thinking about what would happen if I just ended everything right now.

I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point I lost all hope. All the hope that I harboured somewhere deep, deep, inside of me that Sherlock was still alive, out there somewhere had done. Evaporated. Now I was stuck here in this never ending tunnel of grief, no way to get out.

Or rather, it's more like I'm falling too. Even after all this time I still feel a little out of breath, a little startled, as if something's missing in each step I take, in every breath. But of course it is. I can't hear the familiar footfalls next to me as I walk through the streets of London, the swish of a long, dark quote, the endless muttering as he announces deductions when he finds something.

I hear a familiar shrill voice at the door

"John, dear. Hi-erm" she knocks again, then lets herself in. I walk out to the living room- well hobble- "Hello, dearie" she says and smiles pityingly "I didn't wake you, did I?"

She seems worried about something, possibly the new boyfriend who has a strange thing with snakes "Oh no, I wasn't sleeping" I smile weakly at her then go to sit down. "What is it?" I ask bluntly, I don't really other with manners anymore, it's not as if I'm bothered whether or not people like me or not anymore.

"Well, dear, erm…I don't quite know how to say this but…I think you might have need to go see that therapist of yours again"

"What do you mean?" I say, I know that she was right, but I was still indignant that she shouldn't have mentioned it at all.

"You haven't been out or done anything in weeks, all you do is go the graveyard and that's hardly good for you"

"But-"

"I think you need to go see her" she cuts me off "Because I don't think you're getting over him." she says it so offhandedly, as if it's something so small, like we'd just had a fight, then I realise it was as if she thought we were a couple.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson I might. But I have things to do now" I say and hustle her out of the door.

Then I really think about it, what she said. 'You're not getting over him' .

She's right. Dear God is she is so right. I can't do this, no matter how much I've told myself that I can live without him , that soon I'll go out and get another job, try and make new friends or at least talk to the old ones I never do it. I can't do, at all. I can't do anything my mind is still so stuck on Sherlock.

So I'm not, I can't -there is no way I can ever move on from this, there is no way that I can just 'get over' Sherlock Holmes. And because of that, it means that the rest of my life will be spent in this state of loneliness and depression, and I can't do that. I can't live like this forever.

I can't live without him.

The only other option I have then- is to end it. To end all of this suffering, all the pain, the feeling so alone, the want, the need, the love that will always be there but had never been mentioned-that I will always feel. The constant nightmares, the rerunning in my head so what I could have done differently, how I could have saved him.

I just can't go on like this, not at all.

That's it then. I've made my decision. Finally, finally I will get some rest, some contentment, maybe I'll even see him again. If heaven is real, he will surely be there, for me, it wouldn't be heaven-a paradise- without him. And if there's some chance to see him then really this seems to be the right thing for me.

Should I leave a note? If Mrs Hudson comes up and finds me….maybe.

Okay something short, I scramble form the sofa and get a pen and paper, then write, my hand shaking.

_I'm sorry. So sorry that I had to put you through this. I just can't anymore, I can't go on like this, I can't live if he isn't here. _

_I hope you will be able to understand. _

_I'm sorry, John Watson. _

I don't address it to anyone in particular, there's my parents but they have Harry, she'll be there for them, the note won't bring them any comfort, but perhaps some insight into my decision. Maybe, they'll blame themselves as is likely with any death close to you, that they weren't there but of course that's nothing to do with it, so I squeeze in a line above my signature

_There was nothing that could have helped me, so don't think you could have convinced me otherwise, because it wouldn't have worked. This is the only way I believe I can be happy. _

Okay, so at least they might feel a little less guilty. They all have people that they really care about, Harry has Clara (they got back together a few weeks ago, due to Harry's sobriety) and of course Mum has Dad even if he is a drunk, they still love each other.

So I have to do it now, there's no point in putting it off.

I go back to the bedroom, and pull the gun back out from the draw, finger the trigger, wonder whether to add the silencer. But I don't know where that is so this is going to have to be loud, I hope Mrs Hudson has gone next door to the café, so she will hardly hear.

I draw the gun up to my head, bringing it so that bullet will directly hit the centre of my brain, cutting off oxygen- that way it will be quicker, less painful. I brush my fingers over the trigger, wrap them around it. I lightly rest my fingers there, so that I can pull it any moment, then organise my thoughts, all on death, on pain, on the way everyone will seem me. I push it put of my mind.

I want my last thought to be of him, of the good moments. Not missing them, just remembering how good they used to be. I want the last image in my mind to be of his face. Then I let my mind play a slideshow. Sherlock in deep thought, his hands steepled to his chin, Sherlock laughing, Sherlock grinning when he's finally found something, his face when he's asleep- so young and unblemished, free of worry and the things he's seen, free of the mask he puts on, Sherlock smiling at me contentedly for no reason. So with this thoughts in my mind, I begin to curl my fingers, ready to pull back the trigger of the gun.


	7. Here

_**AN**_: Dear god I completely forgot about this little story. I am so sorry. I only remembered this chapter after a review, so thank you for that.

* * *

I can't do this.

No.

Not yet. I have to say it. I have to tell Sherlock, out loud, that I love him. Obviously, that's impossible so I think of the next best thing. His tombstone, all those times I had felt his presence there, being there, so close to the body it would make me feel a little more comfortable in doing this, if I admit everything.

That's it then, I have to go. However pathetic, stupid and deluded it sounds I have to go. I have to talk to 'him'- or rather the closest thing I have to him. The desolate headstone, the lifeless, rotting body six feet under the ground.

I put the gun down, back on the bed so it will be easier to get when I come back.

I take the cane, put on my coat, my gloves- a very thoughtful and unexpected gift from Sherlock 'Here, John you can hardly examine the bodies on sight if your hands are red raw from the cold'- and haul myself downstairs. In my desperation and wanting to get this over with I hail a cab.

"Hey, yeah, St Mary's church." I tell the driver and he sets off.

Due to the short distance, we get there in minutes so I pay him the money get out as quickly as possible- which, with my leg, is painfully slow.

The gate to the graveyard is open, the heavy iron against a long wall. I walk up, straight to the gravestone. Then my composure drops.

The sobs take over, I haven't cried in weeks. I can't keep this in- though I try not to cry here- ever. My whole body is shaking then somehow I end up kneeled in front of the grave, my whole body heaving as I cry. _Sherlock. My Sherlock. _ He's really gone, and now, now I'll finally be able to see him again.

If even there isn't all that schmaltzy heaven stuff, at least I'll be free of all this pain. I let the sobs take over, thinking of everything, letting it all out this one last time. Then, when I can breathe again, I say it

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

I hear footsteps, and for a second the hope fills me again, and I begin to turn my head, closing my eyes, then before looking fully around I shake it, then look back to the headstone, thinking that it was probably running through.

Then, from where I still sit on the floor, I feel arms wrapping around me from the back, strong arms. My eyes shoot open. And I smell the aloe vera, the coconut, the smoke then the things that's so incredibly _him. _I turn my head.

Fuck.

No, no. This isn't real. The hold you feel around you now isn't anyone at all, John. You're going crazy. These aren't rational thoughts, everything you feel and smell right now is an illusion created by your desperate mind, attempting to give a comfort in the last hours. This is nice, but not right. I need to stop it. I take a deep breath. Just look around and you'll see that no one is there, that your only imagining this whole thing.

It's him. It's really him. Those cheekbones, the coat, even the scarf. Dear god it's him.

Sherlock isn't dead, he's here. He's with me, his arms are around me. I can't breathe- I can't cope with this. Oh my _god._

I lean back into him, turning and running my hands up and down his chest. He's real. This isn't a delusion. He's really here.

_He's alive. _

Fucking prick. Complete, utter, bastard. He left me, he hurt me so much. He let me believe that he was dead for all this time. He lied to me about everything.

How could he have done this? Dick. The anger becomes more and more intense, and I pull away from him, stand up- which he follows. Then I pull my arm back swiftly and

_Thwack. _

Blood runs down Sherlock's pretty little face from the gash I'd left on his cheek. Good, it left a mark, the bastard deserves it. He steps back, confusion in his eyes. So I bring my arm back again as he steps closer, seemingly in an attempt to calm me down, and this time hit him with enough force to knock him right over. I hear the air rush past him and the _Smack _as he hits theground.

Sherlock got up from the floor then, an arm's length away- just far enough so that I wouldn't be able to hit him again without moving forward. His face bears such a plain, innocent expression that even though I hate him for looking so innocent when he so clearly is _not_ I can't bring myself to hit him again and the anger dies down a little, but I can still barely get the words out

"Sher-Sherlock" I say, my voice shaking a little. I begin walking a little "How did you-how are you-I checked you…you didn't have a pulse Sherlock."

How can he even be breathing right now? He didn't have a pulse, his heart had stopped beating. This didn't make any sense. How on earth did he not have a pulse? Did he do something to make his heart stop beating? And all that blood. All over the pavement, the wound on his head my god how did he even get down from that roof at all? How has he done this? There were coroner report, definitely a dead body- there was someone under our feet right now- there was proof that he was dead, yet here he was.

How can any of this even be possible? Then again, he was bloody Sherlock Holmes, he could do anything. Here, this was it, the miracle I asked for and all I had done so far, even after all the bargaining I'd done internally was punch him.

Then he speaks for the first time since he appeared. _Came back to life_. Then completely infuriatingly he says

"I explained that to you." then takes a small step towards me, his arms finally lowered and plans facing me, reaching out just slightly.

"You-you- you explained that? How could you have explained-if you'd have explained I would have known you weren't dead!" I say my voice practically vibrating in disbelief and anger at this statement. I look up and him and there's something different. His eyes aren't filled with the usual studying, concentrating look, or the one of annoyance or even the one of slight humour or pleasure, but one of longing, of need. One of slight helplessness, one of concern. That look in his (currently) blue grey eyes makes me think that he actually _feel something_ that he might actually reciprocate my feelings. Somehow, someway he had heard what I'd said and had felt something stirring, even if it wasn't the same, intense, way I felt it maybe there was some small chance that he would be able to reciprocate. That feeling, that way that Sherlock could somehow love me made all of the anger ebb out of me, leaving only crippling disbelief and raw pain.

So I fall forward straight into him, my head right on his chest and sobbed. Sobbed for the months of pain and torture that were finally over, sobbed that I had given hope and he had finally come home, that he wasn't dead, that my Sherlock was still here, that he could still be alive and that he was right here, holding me up . Sobbed for the utter relief and conflicting euphoria anger I felt and Sherlock sighed at this, seemingly letting something out and wrapped his arms around me even tighter.

"Shhh, shhh John. Don't- I'm sorry John" Sherlock, apologising now that was something rare, Sherlock would never say sorry unless he knew that he had been truly wrong. His voice held a lot of emotion at that moment and his chin was resting slightly on my head-not exactly a normal hug for friends not the way he was clinging onto me either. Sherlock sounded so truly regretful that I believed this- he wasn't acting this time.

"You're sorry?" I ask in disbelief, as if a mere 'sorry' would be enough, even if in such a sincere form it would never make up for the pain he had caused me, and if he thought that his 'sorry' could fix that then he couldn't have had an idea of how I really felt "You're sorry? I thought you were dead, you have no idea how I felt. How could you do that to me Sherlock. I knew you weren't a fake, you could have explained. Don't you trust me?"

If he had been here all along, he could have told me at any point that he was completely fine and well, but he didn't. He must have thought that I would blab it everywhere, that I couldn't be trusted with such a simple secret. He has to have a good reason for doing this, there must have been something very, very wrong that made him need to appear dead and disappear for six months.

"Of course I trust you John. You needed to believe that I was dead, or-" Sherlock stops in the middle of the sentence. There had been something more that he had wanted to say, but for some absurd reason, maybe he had thought again that I couldn't be trusted with this information, despite his last words.

If those were true, however and he hadn't contradicted himself and there was some other reason he stopped and he had trusted me, then what was the reason for hidden all of this from me for so long. Why had he needed or wanted me to believe that he was dead? What on earth would he get out of me thinking, and of course everyone else, thinking that he had been dead. Also, even more pressingly- Why had he done it in the first place? None of this made any sense, most blatantly the fact that he was actually alive, here in front of me. I ran my fingers lightly over his face, checking again that it was really him.

God, how was he even here? After all these months Sherlock was right here in front of me,_ alive. _He wasn't a figment of my imagination at all as I first thought, this was really him.

No one else had that deep, velvet voice. No one else had those high extremely sharp cheekbones, no one else would wear a cot like that with the coat collar turned up, no one else has such blue grey eyes with slightly green inner rims allowing them to look both colours at different times, no one else-well excluding celebrities or catwalk models- wore such unbelievably tight shirts.

It has to be him. But how. How?

"Fuck you, Sherlock," I say, my head deep in his shirt "Your fucking brilliance and being able to do so much. You cheated death, you prick. How the fuck did you do that? How could you have done that to me, to all of us, you complete dick. Damn it, why did you do this, why did you have to do it?" I realise that all through this my voice had become a tiny whisper, so quiet that even Sherlock's bat like ears wouldn't have heard all of it. Then I feel Sherlock grabbing at my arm, pinching my coat and attempting to move me away, but I can't move. If I move, he might disappear, even though I know I'm touching him right now, I've talked to him there; a very logical section of my section of my brain is screaming that it can't be him. That he was dead, that of I move this will all have been a dream, so I stay put.

Then he says "John, we need to move. We can't be out in the open like this. I can't be here. If they-" I ignore his words, enjoying the deep baritone of his voice a little as my head ear rests against him. I can feel him moving beneath me, that he must be squirming, that he must want to move. Maybe he's looking for something, for someone. Then he begins to tug at me again "John…..John. We need to move."

Why did we need to move anyway? Why did he sound so worried? What was happening that had got him so fidgety and so desperate to get away somewhere. So this time, I raised my head and stepped back so that I could see him properly then ask him

"Wait. Is someone after you? Is that why you-" (why isn't he hidden? Why isn't he disguised? What is he playing at?) I swallow at the lump in my throat when I think of what he'd done. The image of his face, the deep read blood contrasting against the pallid skin I finish the sentence "Is that why you-faked your own death?" I look down at whatever, or whoever rather is underneath our feet right now. I can't believe how utterly joyful yet loathsome I am of saying that. I want to dance around this graveyard right now however inappropriate, yelling "He's alive, he's alive. The man I love is here, and he could even love me back" yet I want to sink into him, I want to beat him for doing this to him I want to just collapse from all the relief, from the exhaustion, from all the unneeded grief.

The he says his voice very strict and as heavily laden with authority as he can manage, from previous knowledge, at least "John, I told you. We can't do this here." He hadn't exactly told me this, only that we needed to get out of here, not that there was actually some reason that we couldn't be here, but I ignored and instead told him "I'm not moving until you explain how you did this. Why you did this to me? I mean to us- Mrs Hudson's distraught." He shakes his head a little, then pulls at me again in desperation, but gives up when I don't budge

Then he finally tells me why we need to move "Fine. John if we don't move now, you could be shot within seconds." He says finally, with slight annoyance. So this time, after picking up the can I'd dropped as I feel against him, I begin to move.


End file.
